It's In A Box Of "Smellies" - But It Doesn't Smell.

So there goes another Christmas in high definition clarity as opposed to the hazy alcoholic blur of the ones of my youth, but hey, that’s progress!?
I’ve realized though that’s it’s perhaps best to be a little hung over on Christmas morning, if only to engineer a lie in. I was up at 8am all bright eyed and bushy arsed and not really knowing what to do with myself, for one preposterous minute contemplated cleaning the windows but managed to snap myself out of it. I was under strict instructions not to open my presents until girlfriend Nikki had arrived from her folk’s place where she was spending the night, and knowing her sleeping patterns I knew I could quite easily be kicking my heels for hours on end around the front room before making an infuriated phone call on Boxing Day.
She eventually rolled up just before mid day by which time I’d had two breakfasts, done a white wash and listened to a whole programme of Christmas carols as played by the “Brighouse and Rastric brass band” with vocals provided by the “Hudderfield Choral society”. (I later used a joke as told by presenter Christopher Timothy at “Sinatras” in my show, but it didn’t get the laughs as afforded to it by the congregation of St. Peter and Pauls church unfortunately).
Have to say I did pretty well presents wise, two jumpers, three books, a couple of dvd’s, hip flask, some “Mr. Men” socks, a “Next” pack of smellies, a calendar, a hamper, and a hoody top so I can frighten the pensioners at work of an afternoon. Unfortunately I managed to smash a beaker before I had chance to open it, it was a special Leeds United one as well with my name on it and I looked on horrified as it lay in pieces on the ground at my feet, all a bit too symbolic for my liking, mirroring exactly our season up to press. One piece of equipment in the “Next” pack has got me beat mind. It came in a little cardboard box labelled “Muscle Bar”, is the shape of a tablet of soap but is black in colour and odourless. I’m not all together sure what I’m supposed to do with it to be honest, I’ve been holding it up to the light and sniffing at it for days now, I did wash my face with it a couple of times but my sink went a funny colour and I came out looking like Al Jolson,....anybody got any ideas?

Tidings of Comfort And Joy.

Well it’s full steam ahead with the credit crunch then, what with Woolworths going breasts north and MFI folding (see how they like it), it’s all getting a bit down in the mouth back home. The holiday makers over here are suffering too, what with the exchange rate being such that, by the time you’ve changed your money over to Euros, you’ve just got about enough to phone home and ask for some more money to be sent over, - these are trying times.
The other “turns” that I’ve spoken to are getting a bit jumpy and wondering if they’ll manage to feed the cat this Christmas, but I think that it’s a bit early to be reaching for the poisoned mushrooms just yet, must admit though to feeling a bit paranoid meself. Recently after a show in the last remaining venue where I haven’t been laid off, the sound and lighting man who had just returned after a trip back home says. “I thought about you the other day, I bumped into a Big Issue seller in Wakefield”. (!?!?) It turns out that this particular character was Polish and it reminded him of a couple of jokes I use in the act (all in the best possible taste of course, and anyway it isn’t me strictly speaking, it’s Billy Connolly).
I’ve spent most of the last couple of weeks writing a synopsis for my book “Chasing The Cheese – A Year In The Life Of A Benidorm class B Celeb”, but whichever way I write it, it makes me sound like some slightly twisted student out to make a nuisance of himself in his gap year, or some dozy old train spotter who’s finally fallen off the end of the platform, but there you go. I’ve trawled the internet looking for suitable publishers and literary agents who might be interested in my work, and come to the conclusion that, well,…. there aren’t any. Not helped by the fact that 99.87% (I’ve done the research), of them reside in London!! - no reason to stop trying though.
A couple of news stories that appealed this week are of the pilot who flew 80 passengers from Cardiff to Paris and then announced “I’m not qualified to land, - we’ll have to turn back”. It turns out that once they arrived in Paris it was a touch foggy and he hadn’t got the qualifications to land in overcast conditions would you believe. What about taking off in overcast conditions then? Presumably he’s fairly skilled in this procedure if he’s working out of Cardiff in the middle of winter?!
The other one concerns a 22 year old woman who was banned from buying a box of Christmas crackers because staff feared she was too young under the 1875 explosives act.
She had picked out a box of ten crackers at Marks & Spencer in York and was amazed to be asked by check-out staff if she was 16 or over. This is a direct quote from the paper -

Heather said: "The member of staff looked at me for a moment before asking for ID. She refused to believe that I was 22 even though I have nearly finished a degree course.
"As if that wasn't bad enough, she said that she was protecting me by not selling me them. It's as if she was suggesting that if I was left alone with the crackers I couldn't be trusted and might blow myself up."

Ten Years!!

It’s my anniversary today; I’ve been here in Benidorm for 10 years! That’s like a whole year, times by ten, hang on I’ll check, it can’t possibly be true can it, I mean 10 years, I should be retired by now. I lived in Blackpool for two and a half years before that and in my own mind I’ve lived in both places for exactly the same amount of time. I don’t even know why I remember it was the 10th of December when I landed here, but I do, I didn’t realize it then but I couldn’t have picked a worse time really, this little chunk between the November fiestas and Christmas is possibly the quietest time of the year. Just to underline this fact, I’ve been laid off from three of my four jobs this week.
But there I was just innocent middle aged bloke looking to break back into show business after taking a decade off due to the fact that I’d have been up on a manslaughter charge if I hadn’t taken time out, such was my relationship with my agents. I had subsequently worked as a postman, and then barman and every other job with “man” in the title until I felt confident enough to return to the fray.
To say I struggled when I first got here is putting it mildly, I didn’t have an act so I was basically unemployable, living in a freezing hostel in the Old Town with a bunch of surreal nutters in a room that your average psychiatric patient would turn his nose up at was a bit of an eye opener. The mattress had a lean of 45 degrees, weighed about 3 ounces and the window was so small I could only look out with one eye at a time. (I’d appreciate it if you’d hum the theme tune from the Hovis advert at this point), I would tip toe down to the beach bare foot at first light for a bracing run before breakfast, flicking loose stones from my heel and averting the stares from local cops as I frolicked on the sand. Oh, the innocence of it all.
My girlfriend, in a strange loop of fete now lives in Blackpool and we communicate on “Skype” whereby you can talk for an unlimited amount of time for free over the internet, you can also see each other. Not sure agree with that bit though, half of the fun of conversing on the phone is that you can pick at your toe nails or have a good scratch at your nether regions whilst discussing the price of washing powder.”How’s your day been?” I politely inquired last night.
“Oh, nothing special really, but I had to buy a pregnancy test from the chemist and then a packet of cigarettes” she mused matter-of-factly. After I’d matter-of-factly fallen out of my chair, I thought for a bit, pulled myself together and croaked, “Er,....what!!!??, ......but.......you don’t even smoke!” (Well, actually no I didn’t say that, I’ve only just thought of it now – but I was shocked).
“It’s for class” was supposed to allay my fears. I must point out at this point that she is taking a degree in acting, and the part she is playing today is that of a chain smoking nymphomaniac apparently. Whatever.

Wake Me Up Next Week.

Well, it’s been a lean few days here in Benidorm, the beginning of December is a notoriously quiet time here, placed as it is between the November fiestas and festive celebrations. There was another fiesta yesterday – “Constitution Day” and today we are celebrating the "Imaculate conception" apparently, - would have loved to have seen the look on Joseph's face when Mary came up with that one. You’ve got to hand it to em over here, by the last calculation there’s only about 3 weeks a year without some day off thrown in, they’ve adopted every fiesta from within a 500 mile radius and Christmas lasts about two months.
“The Cumberland Sports & Social Club” re-opens on 14th December and personally I can’t wait to get stuck into it once more, these afternoons are gradually getting longer, I’ve been trailing round the shops today (the Chinese ones – the Spanish ones are all shut), looking for little round sunglasses, not for me you understand, - for Ozzy Osbourne.
Here’s something that caught my eye in the paper while I was on my way to the “World’s Biggest Liar” competition the other week. The new “Colemanballs” book is out, which, if you didn’t know is the bible for all gaffes of the sporting nature. Here’s one or two from the latest volume.
“Once you’ve thrown the javelin, it’s out of your hands” – Tessa Sanderson
“The great North Run is the longest half marathon in the world” – Talksport Radio
“Calzaghe has managed to keep all his personal problems out of his life” - Duke McKenzie.
“He was running quicker than his legs could go” - Steve McLaren
“We are not as good as we think we are. We need to go out there and prove that” – Steve McLaren.
“Gary Neville was captain, and now Ryan Giggs has taken on the mantelpiece” – Rio Ferdinand.
“He chanced his arm and it came off” – Bryan Moore
“If you want a quiet life, you have to turn a blind ear” – Geoff Boycott
“It would help if the groundsman didn’t scatter his seed around the place a couple of days before the game” – Jonathon Agnew.
“Camebridge have won the boat race! – Oxford have come second”. – Geoff Twentyman (BBC radio Bristol).

Biggest Liar In The World Competition

I’ve just got back from a immensely enjoyable weekend where I spent the first night at the “World’s Biggest Liar” competition, held annually at the “Bridge Inn” pub in the Lake District.
As luck would have it my flight touched down at Manchester ten minutes early which miraculously enabled me to catch the last available train to Ravenglass which, as far as I’m aware is the nearest point of civilization to (a) Holmrook – the location of my B and B, and (b) Santon Bridge itself where the competition will be held.
It’s six o’clock on the dot as I breeze through the door at the “Ratty Arms” pub, which I’m guessing in former times was the waiting room for Ravenglass station as it is actually located on the platform itself. I’m figuring I’m going to time this thing just about right as it says on the ticket in my back pocket that the starting time is 7pm (the ticket also enables me to partake of the “Tattie Supper”, whatever that is, but whatever, I’ll tackle it as I’m ravenous). As there was no sign of a telephone box I ask the young barmaid for a taxi number, and she very kindly offers to phone one for me. After a short conversation on the somewhat less than reliable mobile phone she gladly informs me that there is a taxi available – at about 7:15! – the sole driver allocated to these parts obviously doesn’t like rushing his tea.
I muttered some mild expletive under my breathe and asked if there wasn’t some other firm that might take me now, but she looked annoyed at my annoyance and said that there wasn’t. “Ok, I’ll take it, - thank you” I said, as I stood deflated against the bar counting my change all crestfallen. I sat with a pint of “John Smiths” as I weighed up my options.
The taxi driver showed up at around 7:25pm and I scurried out of that very pleasant hostelry and into the awaiting vehicle. I had him drop me off at the “Lutwidge Arms” pub which was to be my bed for the night. I flew through the door like some wild west villain explaining that “the clock was running” and I didn’t have time for pleasantries as I breathlessly gave my name to the amiable if somewhat startled woman and told her thank you very much as I threw my bag into room 9 and haired back down the stairs and out into the car park.
The lengthy pause that greeted my inquiry as to what my chances were to getting a taxi back again later on left me squirming, before feigning relief with – “Oh it doesn’t matter, if I know which way I’m going I’d rather walk anyway”
As I forced my way into the packed venue, - us club people would call it a “Function Room” I could see that I didn’t have a hope of finding a seat and I was going to struggle to find any sort of standing position come to that. I naturally sort sanctuary at the bar and awkwardly cradled a pint of “Cumberland Ale” as the compere, addressed the massed ranks of local dignitaries, film crew, busy photographers, assorted hacks and increasingly restless audience. I was relieved of my ticket, telling me that all the “Tattie Suppers” were gone and would I like some lamb stew. I politely declined.
Nearly all thirteen entrants were of local origin, I have never been to this part of the country before I am slightly perplexed to hear that the local accent has a sound of watered down “Geordie” about it, now geography isn’t my strong suit exactly but that’s across the other side of the country isn’t it?
First up is a young student type with ginger hair who, although obviously nervous, - and who wouldn’t be with television cameras and flash bulbs rammed under your nose end – made a fairly decent fist of it. Being stuck at the back and with most contestants not laying claim to the greatest of microphone techniques it was difficult to decipher exactly what was said but our student friend opened with “I was born in a wicker basket in 2000” which seemed like a decent start, and he went on to receive a passable ripple of appreciation. Next up was “James Mason – Butler to the rich and famous” who mumbled a bit and I didn’t have the slightest notion what he was going on about. Next up enter stage left Glenn “Cloth Ears” Boyland, who with his curious tale of the downfall of the Roman Empire due to their carnivorous diet – i.e eating people instead of food, would eventually prove good enough to clinch third spot.
Others included a “Brain Surgeon” who told of his club trip to Kabul with companion Norman (A Jack Russell), a pop eyed barmy individual whose occupation was announced as a “Wasp Whisperer” and finished with line, “You know shite? – well I shit pink shite!!” (Well, it got a laugh from me). There was an elderly lady in a blue cardigan who was the spit of “Mrs. Doubtfire”, an ample young lady who used the opportunity as a sort of an open mic spot in a comedy club and finished with – “I’m actually a size zero but I keep it wrapped up in this fat so as not to scratch it”, and some old bloke who went on about trying to capture fog for his uncles fog horn
After the break Andrew Halls and Aisha were very entertaining, he acting as interpreter for his Turkish lady friend (actually from Preston) and through him she told of the underwater tunnel from Constantinople to Coniston in years gone by and explained that they’d arrived by submarine that day, which was now parked round the back and apologised to the owner of the blue “Astra” for any inconvenience. We then sat through some of the most tedious ramblings from contestants with all the panache and delivery of my old History teacher, which had pretty much the same effect on the audience as it had on 2T in 1976.

Joyfully though, the reigning world champ “Johnny Liar” a 70 year old local farmer, treated us to a scintillating performance, regaling us with a fantastical tale of his day out in Whitehaven, travelling up there along the sea bed on the back of his trusty horse Daisy and completing the return journey cadging a lift on the fin of a giant skate.
Nice one Johnny and long may you rein.

Time For A Wash!

November 11th 2008.
I woke up yesterday morning to that wonderful gurgling and whooshing sound that all Spanish residents adore – the sound of the water coming back on! It had been off since yesterday morning, I’d had the Dutch woman from next door round telling me that she’d been on the phone to the porter who had used the phrase – “Well, nobody else has complained” to fob her off insisting it was all in her imagination. I couldn’t have complained if I’d wanted to, when I moved in a couple of months back nobody gave me his number, so I had got in touch with the agent who mentioned that not only was it Sunday but it was the “Fiestas” so it could be a problem getting anybody roused before Thursday to sort the problem. So it was a huge relief then when it came back on today, which means I can afford those little luxuries like taking a shower and flushing the toilet. As anybody living over here will tell you this is not what you would call uncommon, and all you can do is hope that when the power cuts hit town you’re not in the lift. – The last time it happened to me, someone phoned the fire brigade but forgot to mention that in fact the building wasn’t a towering inferno and a dozen firefighters rushed the building with oxygen masks and pick axes, and all sirens blazing. It worked though, they had me out in a flash, - if I’d have phoned the “emergency” number I would have been there still no doubt.

Here’s a story from today’s papers that caught my attention -

Great Barrier Reef in garden shed
A man has created his own Great Barrier Reef in his garden shed.
Clayton Smith from Bromley has grown corals for ten years and nurtures more than 120 species in 5ft by 2ft tanks at the bottom of his garden.
He told The Sun: "Coral is an incredible 'pet'. Some people like soft corals, which are wavy, and others the big and fleshy large polyp stone corals.
"However, first-time farmers really like the ones which glow in the dark - they've got the 'wow' factor."

Watch Yer Back - The Fiestas Are Coming!

Well, the November Fiestas are upon us once more, and once again we'll witness the culture split. The Spanish will dress in their sublime lacy period costumes, observe the parades and fireworks and visit the funfair in the old town, with small children gambling playfully at their feet. - Then there's the middle aged British gangs who'll converge on their favourite bar (Vincents, Wooky Hollow, Yorkshire Pride and Shamrock being the favourites), have a high volume chat with the folks they met last year and get wrecked whilst dressed up as Fred Flintstone. - Not that there's owt wrong with that mind! - that's OUR culture that's all. There not much good if you're a "Turn" though, and I've been laid off from "Sinatras" while the heat dies down.
Trawling through the papers today, it's a case of Prince Philip eat your heart out, after hearing of this classic from all round entertainer, Italian Supremo Silvio Berlusconi. Whilst in a press conference with the Russian President he came up with this corker. - "I will try to help relations between Russia and the U.S, where a new generation has come to power, and I see no problems to establish new relations with Obama who is handsome, young and suntanned"

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Oh for f......

Halloween An All That

It’s been a pretty quiet week down at the old “Cumberland Sports & Social Club” this week, the lull before the storm that is the Benidorm Fiestas you might say.
We did however pay homage to two top people – Sid and Pauline Dunhill by awarding them the “Members of the Month” trophy for October. Due to budget restrictions however, the Concert Chairman had to revamp an old pigeon trophy which went mercifully un noticed, what didn’t go un noticed though was the fact that he spelt Pauline’s name wrong! - And Sid’s as well now I come to think of it (his name is Raymond).
They have been in every afternoon and every night and have been present at all of my cabaret shows, gleefully showering “Cliff Richard” with table tennis balls and acting as wilful stooges to my “Julio Iglesias” flower routine and bracing themselves for the contents of “Dean Martin’s” glass like the veteran extras that they are.

It’s Halloween tonight and our barmaid Cheryl has been playing hell because the Bat uniform that she’s been requesting for the last two months from Claire and Ivor’s fancy dress shop next door failed to show. So instead she’s going as a big spider. Unfortunately, she has a mortal and irrational fear of the things so let’s just hope she doesn’t catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Mind you, I think Dracula’s had them banned for the evening.

Catching my eye in the on line papers today is the news that 58 year old expat Mark Lewis – who barely speaks a word of Spanish, - has been made Mayor of San Fulgencio (somewhere near Alicante), after he was only one of two councillors not to be arrested on corruption charges. Somebody give the lad a chance I say, this time next week he’ll be building a road through his next door neighbours garden and commissioning his brother to do the work even though he’s running a fish shop in Tooting.

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2008/09 Season At The "Cumberland Sports & Social Club"

Well, it’s been a great start to the 2008/9 season down at the “Cumberland Sports & Social club” here in Benidorm.
One of our members “Dozy” Dave from Pontefract has been in sparkling form this last couple of weeks with his dazzling array of impersonations of such greats as Pavarotti, Rod Stewart, Elvis, Willie Nelson. Don Estelle and Reg Crookshank (his next door neighbour).He gleefully informed us all that he had recently taken part in his very first pantomime recently, (Dave is 73), - it was in “Puss In Boots” in his home town of Pontefract. When I asked him what part he played he said – “The Pie Seller”, and somewhat annoyed at my mirth, countered, - “Well, it was a Yorkshire version! – they were “Pukka Pies”! – fair enough then. For full footage of his and club steward Nigel’s tribute to Don Estelle and Windsor Davies click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=24yBdOpUyfk

The quiz of a Tuesday night is going a bomb, with not a spare seat to be had in or outside the club for the past month, and I can’t go without mentioning the effort here of Claire, one of our bar staff, who, on her night off was taking part. One of the questions was, “Who were the two stars of “Top Hat” (the correct answer being Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers), she put “Top Cat and Officer Dibble”, - she had misheard the question, and thought or quizmaster had said “Who were the two stars of “Top Cat”. Nice one Claire.

Other notables this week include Johnny Parkinson, - also from Pontefract (I must go there on my holidays sometime), gratefully accepting the Concert Chairman’s offer of the use of his spectacles whilst writing out his email address – even though they are just frames, with no lenses in them.
And top marks has to go to the large cockney bloke who turned up last Sunday and introduced himself, - whilst I was on my way to the toilet, - as “Gorgeous George, - world heavyweight champion”, which baffled the life out of me. When I mentioned this to bar owner Nigel, he rather excitedly said – “Yes! – that’s it, I remember him now, he was a wrestler round about the time of Mick McManus and all of that lot”. When next I looked up there was old “Georgeous” regaling Nigel of his various ring exploits and I have to say that by gaffer was looking suitably impressed at this point.
I was less sure, and as soon as I got home I turned on the computer and “Googled” him. Alas “Gorgeous George” was world heavyweight champion wrestler, but he was born in 1915, which would make him a rather sprightly 93 years of age, which is stretching it a bit, and I have to say that if it is him in our club, then he’s looking remarkably chipper, especially as he died in 1963!

"Great Gorilla Race" - London

Having been one of the first to arrive, somehow I've managed to be right at the back for the 2008 "Great Gorilla Race" and I'm itching (literally) for the off. Im clad in full Gorilla costume and would be running almost blind such is the design of the mask.

It had mentioned in the e-mails that I’d received from the “Gorilla Organisation” that we would receive a rousing speech from TV personality and ex “Goodie” Bill Oddie shortly before the off. I could hear somebody in the far off distance saying something, but from this range it came across as gobbledegook rather in the fashion of the teacher in those “Charlie Brown” cartoons from years ago. You could feel the atmosphere starting to build though even from here, and, probably encouraged by our friend Bill, suddenly all eight hundred competitors were becoming agitated in the extreme, some vigorously beating at their chests with pumping fists, others jumping up and down, and nearly all either whooping or screeching as a loud hooter sounded for the race to begin.
It was something of an anti climax then, when, although jogging on the spot I didn’t actually get to move anywhere for at least two minutes as the hordes of primates bobbed up and down trying to get a glimpse of the scene up front and the possibility of actually getting started. I don’t think I saw one gorilla not in fancy dress, not too far in front I could see my old pal from the tube station with bowler hat and brolly, there was a red Indian with full head dress, who it transpired was one of a group, - “The Village People”, quite a few were done up as ballet dancers, a team of basketball players who bounced a ball the whole way round, Wonder woman was just one of a batch of superheroes, a couple of boxers sparred a bit over enthusiastically, and at one stage wrestling each other to the ground, there were pirates waving cutlasses around, a butcher and Michael Jackson performing his “Thriller” routine.
Suddenly the road opened up before me and we were off. Unfortunately it was very difficult to see through the two tiny slits above the eyes of the mask and I stumbled straight into a gorilla clad in a safari suit. After a few muffled apologies and just a hundred yards after the start I saw the first casualty of the campaign, when a “Ghostbuster”, or at least I think that was what he was supposed to be with a big pack on his back, had crashed and was laid writhing on the kerb looking a bit confused., several of his pals crowded round to help and somebody had pulled his head off to help him breathe.
I had no sooner got into my stride when I was collared by some youth and asked if I would do a TV interview. Hamming it up somewhat I said I would just as soon as I got by breath back, (even though I’d only been jogging for about ten seconds) and proceeded to cough and splutter, bend over with my hands on my knees, and take a long draw on my fag. (it was one of those joke ones). In my old mans voice I began to explain as how I’d drawn the short straw back home in the club and won the gorilla suit in a raffle, after which I’d been flown over here and frog marched to the start etc. etc. blah blah blah and basically lied through my rubber teeth for two minutes. As I set off once more I panicked as I realized that there was nobody behind me and all the runners in front were now out of sight. Another disconcerting thing was that the roads hadn’t been blocked off or anything so we had to run the gauntlet with pedestrians and Saturday morning traffic, which wasn’t inconsiderable as it was such a glorious day. I put on a sudden spurt to try and catch up and was nearly mown down by a black cab coming round the corner, because I could only see directly in front of me, and even then not that much. Fortunately I came across a race steward, who directed me the right way and across a pedestrian crossing.
At this point as I was running alone, and to the uninitiated seemingly a lone nutter, the number of looks I got from eager Japanese tourists was a mixture of high amusement and stern faced animosity. Of all the times I’ve had my photograph taken in all of my life, you could times that number by ten in that short five minute period until I caught up the stragglers at the back of the troupe. This was a happy moment and I could now relax into the roll and I found myself trotting straight backed, chest out and slightly bow-legged, all the while keeping the cig between the index and middle fingers of my right hand.
After about twenty minutes it was beginning to get hot in there and I noticed that many of my fellow competitors were either taking their masks off or pushing them back so that the chin was up on top of their heads, This was an outrage as far as I was concerned, once the mask has been taken off the whole illusion is shattered and if it had been anything to do with me it would have meant instant disqualification. But it was hot.
I had worked out that it would take about half an hour to run the 8km course and I had to laugh to myself that I’d actually put in some training in for this thing. As a rule I never run, I find it acutely boring, but I’d forced myself into early morning runs along Benidorms promenade at first light in order to get my dodgy knees into the swing of things. But here tootling along weaving in and out of casual shoppers and wide eyed tourists I was barely above stiff walking speed. Still, the scenery was good – if I could have seen it.
After about thirty five minutes we came across another steward who offered us (yes us, I was in the pack now) encouragement and said “Come on hang in there, you’re nearly halfway there!”. I shouted back at him “What!?, - halfway!?, - I thought you were about to put a medal round me neck and say well done, - yer bastard”.
Not long after this we came across a water station on the bank of the Thames that was being drained of all its resources, somebody thrust a bottle at me and although my first thought was to snatch and devour it, I relented realizing it was bad for the image. Instead I jogged on a few yards and tuned left into a pub opposite where H.M.S Belfast is moored. I dipped into my bumbag and produced a fiver to pay for my half of lager. The barmaid, who sounded eastern European regarded me with impunity remarking only that she liked my glasses.
I stood outside by the river and jammed the beer glass between the masks lips but when that didn’t work I lifted the chin outward slightly and had a sly slurp that way. This was indeed a great day. A bit further on I stopped as I recognised a few individuals that I’d set off with at the start and we took a few photos.
This was the first time I’d taken time out to look around me and see the bigger picture, it now appeared that we’d run over Tower Bridge and a few other bridges of lesser renown though I hadn’t been fully aware of it at the time, and I was conscious of the fact that we must be somewhere near finishing the course which saddened me somewhat.
As I approached the finishing line I was once again trotting alone and was given a rousing reception by a substantial crowd which surprised me somewhat. as I thought everybody would have pissed off home by now. Bill oddie was supposed to give out the medals, but had long since passed this duty on to one of the woman race officials by the time I theatrically dipped over the line, only to be ushered to the side to give another interview. I basically repeated the script from the first one but with a few more lusty coughs, chokes and wheezes. Some chap took it upon him self to remove the “chip” from my training shoe, leaving me to trip over my now hanging lace as I teetered out of the arena and into obscurity.

Summer of 2008 - illustrated

Well there you go, another click of the fingers and whooooosh!! - the summer's gone. It didn't turn out anything like I'd planned. Originally, I was to have visited around 15 "Quirky" festivals around England, - in the end I managed 3! - and one of those I turned up a week early by mistake.

Mind you, I'm taking part in the "Gorilla Fun Run" in London city centre on September 27th (I've got to, I've already paid £75 for the suit).

The main reason I got side tracked was that I ended up living in Blackpool for the summer, despite what the elements chucked at us, I had a great time witnessing live shows including such diversities as "Joseph and his technicoloured wotsit", Joe Longthorne, Jimmy Carr (a bit like Chubby Brown without the loud suit), Cannon and Ball, Norman Collier, Brotherhood of Man, Paul Daniels, Boyzone and The Krankies!!.

I arrived back in Benidorm yesterday and recoiled at the heat, I've not been out of the shower since I got here, and had to sleep with my fan at the side of the bed last night, (she was thrilled). Start back to work on Sunday afternoon at the "Cumberland Sports & Social Club" as the Concert Chairman, it's a bit warm to be wearing a suit, tie and flat cap, - but I must suffer for my art.

The photos are a resume of the summer, - not including the "Bottle Kicking" and "Cheese Rolling" which took place in the Spring (though it felt like mid winter).

www.myspace.com/benidormclassbceleb

Five Bloody Two!!

I went home to West Yorkshire for the weekend so that I could watch my football team and catch up with a few friends and family.

Don't really think that I could have picked a better game all season to be honest, the sun shone, we run rings round the mighty Crewe Alexander, and scored five brilliant goals!, mind you it wouldn't be Leeds United if we didn't manage to get a man sent off and concede two goals in the last 60 seconds, but hey - who's counting!.

I went with my old pal Neil Ives and as we stood, (although the ground is all seater nobody behind the goal sits - until half time) in a half empty stadium we reminisced that 34 years previously we had been in this very same stand. Back then the atmosphere was Bear pit like, a capacity 44,000 crowd crow barred into the compact stadium, the noise was deafening and a sea of white scarves shimmered above the bobbing masses as we beat a then top Ipswich side 3:2 to clinch the title champions of all of England!

Oh how the mighty have fallen, we're now in the first division, which is actually the third division in real terms and the very fact we're a division behind the likes of Blackpool and Doncaster Rovers say it all really. Spending most of my time in Spain these days means I very seldom get to watch us play and this is the first time I've set eyes on a match since I attended a turgid 0-0 draw in a pre season friendly at Scunthorpe about 5 years ago!- happy days.

These days the turn over of players is phenomenal and if you ever listen to a game on the radio - which you can't unless you happen to have a digital radio - when a goal is scored you're never really sure if we've scored or they have, the names mean nothing.

Anyway we start really well, and a sprightly young black kid with a number 15 on his back (who looks shit hot) scores with a bobbling long range effort, then some bloke who appears to be playing on the left of midfield or possibly left back lets fly with a 35 yard thunderbolt which went in off the underside of the cross bar. Early in the second half two people scored that I knew, -Douglas and Beckford, because they were there last season. Number five was scored by a shaven headed barrel of a thing who I think we signed from Swansea at the back end of last year, and even Crewe's late surge couldn't take the shine off what was a blistering performance, I had to confess I'd actually enjoyed myself. This in its self is an outrageous statement!. - I mean, you don't go to a football match to enjoy yourself do you!?. To moan, and scream at the referee, prey that you per chance get to cheer a goal, criticise the selection policy, be exasperated that you can't get a pint at half time because your'e not a season ticket holder, tell yourself that they are going to score every time that they get over the halfway line and bemoan the fact that we always sit back when a goal up, thus inviting them on to us and end up hanging on for dear life and getting home by the skin of our teeth, - but enjoy ourselves - NEVER.

We got the train back to Guiseley and partook of a celebratory pint or two and more sport in the pub. It was the turn of England football team, who, in their first world cup qualifier managed to grind out a 2-0 win against a bunch of postmen and one legged bin men form Andorra. This Andorra team are great to watch, they spend the whole 90 minutes grabbing hold of shirts, wrestling aponents to the ground, treading on goolies and feigning death, so good and pre occupied are they with this brand of football that they forgot to try and actually score a goal, which came in handy in the end

In this day of sporting extravaganza next up was the boxing. Before the main bout we had to endure Audley Harrison latest tussle with a drunk that they'd found outside in the car park which lasted 12 painstaking rounds, - when the three judges were finally woken up they gave the decision to Harrison. Then another hour to wait before the main bout, which was a world title fight whereby an English bloke beat a Scottish bloke on points which was pretty good, and then finally the main bout of the night,... Amir Khan our big prospect.

I turned round to have a quick slurp of my pint and missed it!. He was knocked sparko by one of those rock hard South Americans before Khan had chance to tie his boots up. And so to bed.

Next day I had a good old fashioned session on the lash with various friends and family in various establishments including my club (although I haven't been a member for 20 years) Hawkhill Social Club - formerly Guiseley Working Mens Club and I am now back in Blackpool packing my stuff up ready to head back to Benidorm on Wednesday.

Whilst I was away my girlfriend had to cook for herself and did very well, - apart from setting fire to the microwave whilst putting a jacket potato into orbit.

The photos by the way are of me outside Elland Road football ground with the statue of our legendary captain from the seventies Billy Bremner (which looks a little bit too much like Charlie Drake in my opinion) and the hi-tec"facilities" at Hawkhill Social Club for the smoking fraternity.

www.myspace.com/benidormclassbceleb

Let There Be Light!

The seasonably bad weather took a day off the last weekend.

Yes!, for the big switch on of the illuminations at 9:30pm, I kid you not, the wind dropped, the rain ceased and the temperature was so tropical that the twenty or so thousand people that turned out on this night, did so without umbrellas, kagools, pac-a-macs, raincoats, woolly hats and snow shoes.

I had taken my jacket with me of course, - there may be a couple of weeks a year over here whereby you don't need to take one out with you, but on a night time - never!. However after about five minutes I had to concede that I had no need for such a garment and many of my fellow revellers were stripped down to vests and shorts as they packed the streets and the arena behind the promenade. It was impossible to get anywhere near the arena, - I don't know if it was the balmy weather or the lure of having Jeremy Clarkson and Co, pulling the big lever, but the place was absolutely throbbing in a way that I'd only seen previously in those old photos from 1920. I got as near as was humanly possible and although I could hear the strains of "Boyzone" who were performing live on stage a couple of hundred yards away, all I could actually see was a toilet block directly in front of me and not a lot else. Then I heard the theme tune from "Top Gear" and a countdown from the crowd in the immediate vicinity, behind us Blackpool Tower lit up and there followed a somewhat muted firework display, - the 2008 illuminations are now officially up and running - but I saw bugger all.

Guess Who

Went to Louis Tussauds Waxworks the other week, and have to say that it has improved beyond all recognition in the last few years. I enjoyed having a coffee in "Roys Rolls" on the set of Coronation Street where I was mistaken for a wax dummy by a Japanese tourist. (Not sure who he thought I was). However, there is still a fair selection of shockers and for the full hall of shame see www.myspace.com/benidormclassbceleb

By the way, you are looking at Leonardo De Caprio, Tom Cruise, Winston Churchill and Ozzy Osbourne. I'll let you decide which is which.

The British Town Criers Championships.

JULY 23RD

On Saturday afternoon as I was stood by the side entrance of the Winter Gardens giving Nikki a last minute pep talk as she adjusted her elbow pads before tackling the “Next” clearance sale, I was aware of a commotion coming from around the corner. Another stag party getting out of hand perhaps? It certainly fitted the bill, lots of shouting, the odd ambulance and the semblance of a small audience. But no, this was actually the 16th annual “British Town Criers Championships”, on one of the main shopping streets in the town centre. They took turns in scaling a small wooden platform before ringing one of those giant hand bells before giving it that “Oh Yeh, Oh yey!” business. They were all superbly turned out looking resplendent in their red and black cloaks with gold braid, waistcoats, jabots, red breeches white stockings and buckled shoes. They each gave a “proclamation” which all basically said the same sort of thing. – “Oh yey, Oh yey, I do hereby declare that I have today, come to the wonderful seaside town of Blackpool, where thine candy floss doth stick to thine gums, where we can lampoon in the street playing the buffoon, and I hereby promise to try and get my rocks off at the earliest opportunity in the Tower Lounge, - God save the Queen!”

On Sunday we visited the “Fleetwood Transport Festival” or “Tram Sunday” as it is better known. We actually went there on the tram, which are in themselves living, working museum pieces. Blackpool and surrounding districts were one of the first places to install a tramway in 1885, and now 113 years later they’re still going strong. Most of the fleet date back to the thirties and personally I adore them, and the on board conductors as well. They obviously take these jobs as part of the care in the community programme as most of them are off their trolleys.
It was a fair old turn out, mercifully it wasn’t raining, quite sunny in fact!, but the strong wind still prevailed, indeed, just down the road at Royal Birkdale on this very day Irishman Padraig Harrington won the claret jug thus retaining the British Open Golf Championship with one of the worst scores in living memory, such were the weather conditions.
Despite this though there must have been in excess of 40,000 people crammed on the street on this “Tram Sunday”. There were vintage cars, buses and motorbikes on show from every era from the 1970’s backwards, steam trains, bands, dancers, fairground rides and even our old friends the Town Criers put in an appearance, everything in fact, except trams!
Apparently up until this year the pride of the fleet would be paraded up and down Fleetwood’s main street, which incidentally is the only main street electrical tramway in Britain. But our old friends at the health and safety executive have once more had the last say.
I was delighted to find a stall dedicated entirely to one of my all time favourite characters, - steeplejack, steam enthusiast and all out loon Fred Dibnah, who was a keen supporter of this event until his untimely death three years ago. His wife, who is a vivacious ex showgirl from Blackpool (you did alright for yourself there Fred old lad), was giving a short speech on the top of an open top double decker bus before coming down to sign a few of her late husbands books. I sifted through a box of badges baring his name, being urged by two elderly spinster types to go for the miss spelt “Fred Dinbah” ones as they would “be worth a fortune one day”. I resisted and got one of the real ones for the Concert Chairman’s lapel.
As we were walking away an official voice using the same microphone as Mrs. Dibnah had a few moments earlier came over the speakers. “Er, this is a difficult one is this, but we have a missing person. He is a male with a blue jacket carrying a bag of ……bananas, his name is John Hogan , but he probably wont answer to his name”. (Think he may have been a club concert secretary). Thereafter we couldn’t resist taking a sneaky look into every bloke’s shopping bag that we happened to pass on the off chance. The last we heard he was still at large, but at least he won’t starve for a while.

Blackpool

We’re here in Blackpool now, we’ve been here for nearly two weeks and we’re settling in very well, it is twinned with with Benidorm of course, well, that’s what most believe anyway, and it’s not difficult to see why. Just one walk up the promenade gives the game away, it’s that emerald green sea topped by a vast blue sky flecked with streaky nimbus, the fluffy yellow sand, the aroma of liberally applied sun tan lotion and the hot breeze gently wafting at your hair. Aah, it is indeed home from home.
In 11 days we’ve had just two that could be described as “okay”, the rest of the time has been spent being splashed upon, chilled to the marrow, being bullied by gale force winds, and buffeted from lamp post to tram stop like a silver ball in a pin ball machine.
Last Sunday there was a vintage car rally on the promenade, sadly they picked a day when 65mph winds were whipping up the sea against the coastal defences and depositing salty froth on all who dared to tread within a hundreds yards of the beach. This resulted in lines and lines of 60’s “MG’s”, “E type” Jags, pre war buses and pristine “Ford Anglias” gently swaying from side to side whilst the heavy coated occupants sat rigid in their seats clutching at flasks and nibbling on sandwiches. All this in the middle of June! We were diving from one shop doorway to another fiercely holding on to each other for ballast, bent forward at forty five degrees if we were heading for the storms eye, or an involuntary canter if downwind.
We popped into “Ripleys, - Believe it or not!” for some respite as much as anything else, which has an amazing collection of artifacts. There are six legged sheep, two headed cows, skateboarding chimps, and various other weird and wonderful sights of questionable authenticity, I mean, there’s even a photo of Blackpool Tower bathed in sunshine for Gods sake!!

The small typhoon also featured on the front page of the local paper – “Horror at local dog show”. The headlines might have been a tad over the top, as far as I know, several marquees were blown over, some rubbish was blown into the street and a startled Jack Russell was retrieved from up a tree in Fleetwood.

For news of the Concert Chairman's tandem cycle ride with his wife Elsie from John O'Groats to Lands End, click on - http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=143841813&blogID=414034290

Where Have All The Nettles Gone?

FRIDAY 13th JUNE.

I am now sat on the 11:10am to Plymouth at Leeds train station, bound for Administer via Exeter. This is for the “World nettle eating contest” in Marshwood Dorset, and I will be in England now for the next three months recharging my batteries, - (I suppose I could have done that in Spain, - just used a different adaptor).
I had an interesting time coming through security at Alicante airport yesterday. Apart from the usual shenanigans trying to get my belt off, (the metal tip of which snares the loops of my jeans rather like a fish hook in the mouth of a startled Chub), I managed to set off the alarm. During the ensuing frisk, the gentleman found a lump on my leg, - it didn’t worry me, it was my money, it worried him though, and he passed me on to the head of security.
The offending envelope was placed on a desk, the officer looked at me and then asked me how much money I had in there (of course all this is going on in Spanish so I was never really sure at any point what was being said exactly, to whom and why). I’d been to the bank the previous day to draw a few quid out, and this money I had; I then pooled it with the money I had left hanging around in the house, so in truth I didn’t know exactly how much I had at all. I told him this, - or at least I think I did. I was suddenly feeling rather vulnerable and just a mite flustered and my pidgin Spanish was baffling the best of em. I was using words I’d never heard of before, and at one point, thinking that I was being accused of theft or of being a drug baron, I produced my bank book showing at least where some of the cash had come from. He must have asked me if I was travelling alone half a dozen times, before shaking his head and producing a tiny piece of laminated card with a table of numbers on it.
The conclusion of this little one way argument was that I had heinously broken the law by taking more than my allotted number of bank notes out of Spain. Let’s get this right though, I could understand it when they had the peseta, but the euro isn’t strictly theirs is it? Think there’s about another forty countries laying claim to it up to press.
Anyway, I was quite chuffed really, it’s probably the only time in my life that I’ve been accused of having too much money.

Leeds train station is bustling as usual and I settle down for the long journey with only empty cans of Heineken and Strongbow in the seat pocket in front for company, also there were plastic glasses filled with lager (hopefully) in the main luggage rack and several Tetley’s bitter cans rolling about on the floor, and this is 11:00am!. A chap with a plastic bin liner came round just outside Derby and did a half hearted clear up but still left me with my empty ale cans, which was good of him.

It’s amazing how fast these journeys can go if you have something good to read, I’d polished off the newspaper in ten minutes flat as usual, mainly because I only ever read the “Man flushes dentures down the toilet” type headlines and the sport. However at the moment I am reading a quite brilliant book by Harry Thompson called Penguins stopped Play. Harry who? I hear you ask, and I’d never heard of him either, but it turns out that I should have done. The Observer newspaper voted him one of the funniest and most influential people in British comedy. Not surprising really when he was the producer of such programmes as Harry Enfield and Chums, Have I got News For You and They Think It’s All Over, and many, many more. He also was instrumental in creating the Ali G character and did much to further the careers of Ricky Gervais, Nick Hancock and Paul Whitehouse. The book is essentially about his cricket team “The Captain Scott Invitation X1” (so called because Scott was an heroic runner up), whereby he assembles a team of players who have never actually played the game before!. His accounts of these games and the subsequent world tour are absolutely superb and I didn’t look up again until Birmingham New Street station, and even then it was only because a cleaner finally relieved me of the empty Heineken and Strongbow tins, which was a bit of a shame in the end, we’d formed a bond.

At the arrival at each station a scratchy voice comes over the intercom announcing where we are and usually apologizing for it’s late arrival. More often than not this is delivered in stop start mode, a la Norman Collier, either that or the volume is equal to that to a knackered portable radio with flat batteries. This usually results in startled recently awoken passengers croaking “what did he say”, before frantically craning their heads desperately scouring the platform looking for a clue.
While we’re on the subject of craning your head desperately looking for a clue, why the hell are destinations put on the front of trains?, we embark from the side don’t we?. Unless you happen to be in the privileged position of being on the platforms edge when the train arrives, and just happen to be looking in the right direction to see the two inch high letters through the grime, then you’ve got to take a guess and mumble to someone, “This the Exeter train?”. They’ll invariably reply “I think so”, nobody is ever really sure on British railways, talk about magical mystery tour.
In actual fact the intercom had been working fine at the start of the journey, and some bloke by the name of Chris announced himself to us, rattling off our stopping off points and telling us we could get tea, coffee and sandwiches but this wasn’t recommended unless you were earning at least fifty grand a year.
I think that maybe our friend Chris had left his microphone switched on by mistake in between stations, as I distinctly heard a sneeze, a cough, and most bizarrely of all a wolf whistle!. (A couple of hours later I realized that it wasn’t the intercom at all, but a young student type behind me playing some strange game on his mobile phone). He then announced that unfortunately the display screens that tell you what carriage you’re on weren’t working so all those people who had reserved a seat (these were on coach C), didn’t have a clue where coach C was and drifted up and down looking for the conductor. Actually, I’ve got a reserved seat somewhere on this train, but I’m quite happy where I am thank you, whatever carriage I’m on.
There was then another announcement which said “Can I remind you that there is no smoking whatsoever anywhere on this train, including the toilets. And if anybody is found doing so they will be put out on the next platform, regardless of if it’s their stop or not!”. Just who exactly was going to put them out on the platform I don’t know, the conductor was about seven stone wet through and the driver was a bit tied up.
The first leg of my journey complete, I arrive at Exeter St. David’s station and in direct contrast to my other visits this year thus far the weather is fine and warm and I can feel a good mood coming on. I approach a middle aged lady, with a bright yellow waistcoat that says “customer services” on the back.
“Excuse me, I’m after the train for Axminster, do you know when the next one is please?”. She slowly produced her timetable.
“Ooh, yeah, roight, Aaarksminster you say, roight, oil just check thart for yer. Humm, now then, let’s see. Aaarksminster, that would be the London Waterloo train, or at least it is usually”. With that she pulled the piece of paper closer to her nose and with a slight nod of the head. “No, I’m wrong there I think, now let’s see, we are at Exeter St. David’s and you want to get to Aaaarksminster, that would be the London Waterloo train, - which is what I thort it was in the first place. Yes, definitely, that would be the London Waterloo train leaving in twenty minutes from platform number, er, three. No, er, - yes, platform number three in twenty minutes, - definitely”. She was my first contact with people in Devon since I worked in Devon in 1986, and I liked her.
Whilst I was waiting on platform three I heard another strange announcement, “Can we remind all passengers, not to board a train unless you intend to travel on it – thank you”. Fair enough, they must have terrible trouble with passengers purposely getting on the wrong train round these parts.

I arrived at Axminster station (on time!), which is a delightfully small single track station which reminded me of Walmington-on-sea. The place where I’m staying is only about twenty minutes walk from here apparently so I thought I’d just hop into a taxi as I haven’t a clue which direction it is. There were no taxis to be seen anywhere so I made for the call box and picked up one of the business cards that had been left in there. I lift the receiver and put my twenty pence in, nothing, - dead as a Dodo. What’s this? Minimum charge forty pence!, since when?. I phone the number whilst simultaneously rummaging through my pockets looking for the piece of paper with the address of my bed and breakfast accommodation written on it. As I got through I realized that I couldn’t find it. “Er, could I have a taxi please, I’m going to Stoney Lane”, said with a certain relief that I could suddenly recall the name of the road. “Is thart in Seaton then?”.
“I’m sorry, where?”
“Seaton, that’s where we are you see, Seaton”.
“Actually, no, I’m at Axminster train station, I’ve just found one of your cards in here”.
“Well, you’d probably be better off with a local firm, goodbye”.
I then pick up one of the other cards left in there and try again. “Hello, could I have a taxi to Stoney Lane please”.
“Stoney Lane, where’s thart then?, that’s in Seaton is it?, Oym not sure oive ever heard of thart”.
“No, I’m in Axminster one of your cards is in this telephone box, and I just thought that maybe you were a local firm, - sorry, I’ll try another number”.
My third attempt. “Can I have a taxi to Stoney Lane please, the name’s Holt”.
“Stoney Lane, tharts in Aaarksminster isn’t it?.
“Er, yes, yes it is”, I said excitedly.
“Well” (this word was dragged out so long that I just knew there was a “but” coming up in the sentence somewhere).
“We caan do et, but it’ll cost you abowt fifteen pownd – because thess firm is baysed in Seaton you see”.
“Yes, I have heard of it, thank you”.
I had run out of fifty and twenty pences at an early stage and had been shoveling pound coins in for a while and I wasted another on a number I picked up in the train station for “Cheap, local and reliable Taxis”. They weren’t that reliable at answering their phones though and I gave the box a resounding thwack with my palm as I was diverted to an answer phone and winced as my penultimate coin plopped down with rest of my beer money.
I celebrated getting through to a local firm with my last coin with a silent clenched fist celebration, they went up further in my estimations when the driver turned up on time and guessed the name of my Bed and Breakfast from my vague description of “Mill something”.
As we drove through the town centre it struck me that Axminster was smaller by far than I had imagined. I don’t know why, but I had pictured a large bustling town with a dirty great big carpet factory in the middle with a huge steaming chimney sticking out of the top it.
It has it’s origins back in the Celtic times of around 300 B.C, and is set among some glorious countryside on the river Exe (which I never saw). It was Thomas Whitty who invented the Axminster carpet based on a Turkish style and opened his first factory in 1755. Axminster carpets soon became the choice for wealthy English country homes and town houses, they were found in Chatsworth Hall and Brighton Pavilion and bought by King George the third and Queen Charlotte. However by 1835 Samuel Rampson Whitty, the grandson of the founder was declared bankrupt after a disastrous fire seven years earlier which destroyed the factories looms. After a gap of the best part of a hundred years a carpet maker called Harry Duffield, (after a chance meeting with a vicar on a train, who told him the story), the germ of an idea was born and in 1937 carpet making was resumed in Axminster.

We arrived at Millwater House, a former working saw mill which was hidden away at the bottom of a private driveway that it shared with a spacious bungalow. As I waved off the taxi driver and the family of Americans who had shared my cab I was greeted on the doorstep by Ruth the owner, a charming understated woman who looked a lot younger than she sounded on the phone and she showed me to my room with a shy smile.
I immediately began to relax and as I stretched my arms skyward and peered out of the window, and saw a solitary grey squirrel sat motionless beneath a bird table on the lawn outside. In fact it looked so motionless that I thought that maybe it was a little statue, but its living status was confirmed later, - by it not being there when I left for the pub.
I was suddenly in my element as I picnicked on my bed with the leftover sandwiches that I’d made for the train, a couple of bananas were dug out of the bottom of my bag and I made a cuppa with my “tea making facilities”. England cricket team were just kicking off in their opening Twenty20 one day match against New Zealand, the commentary of which seduced me from my portable radio on the bed side table, and there was football on the telly!. I’m definitely coming back here again!, I thought. Okay, the game was only Italy versus Romania, us English weren’t invited to the European Championships of course, on account of the fact we’re rubbish. This does have its up side. It means that my heart rate can stay put all summer long for one thing, although I will miss the glorious uncertainty of just who would despairingly miss from the spot, and thus knocking us out in a penalty shoot out at the quarter final stage.
What added to my serenity was that I was entirely uncontactable, although a pain in the rear end earlier with the taxis, the detached feeling from the rest of the world here in my B and B in a tranquil corner of East Devon was marvellous. My mobile phone doesn’t work properly over here and my English phone number had been cancelled in my absence by “T-Mobile”, I hadn’t had time to fix it before I came, and at this stage I’m not sure I wanted to.

I ventured out at around 8:30pm, remembering carefully the route the taxi had taken that brought me here. The only sound I could hear was my own two feet as I strolled my way up the lane in the early evening sun and into the town centre, it’s Friday night and I was expecting that there would be a few people hanging about. After wandering about for a few minutes trying to get my bearings I called into a large looking pub called The George, there was nobody in there save for a couple of Aussies chatting semi drunkenly at the bar. Shades of the cheese rolling in Brockworth, must be here for the nettle eating I surmised, I fell into line and ordered a pint of Fosters lager. A quick glance around the place revealed a television behind me, I was hoping that they would have the football on but my heart sank when I heard the broad Geordie nasal tones of that bloke who does the commentary for Big Brother.
I moseyed across to a table with newspapers and periodicals strewn across it and picked up the Daily Mirror – again, and didn’t find it much more interesting than I had done earlier on the train.
I drained my glass and set off for another little amble around town, making note of a chip shop for later use I then happened upon the “Red Lion” which advertised “All sport shown”, so in I went and ordered a pint of “Sharps Doom Bitter”. At least the place was quite full, mainly due to a wedding party, but it was another pub that has gone down the line of the Mediterranean terracotta wall look adorned with arty modern paintings (what’s wrong with looking like an English pub these days?). There was a sign above the bar which advertised “O.A.P roasts every Thursday lunch”, Hmmm, they’re probably a bit chewy I thought. The football wasn’t on here either, they’d got a music channel on so I had another swift one and set off for pastures new.
The “Axminster Arms” was the best so far, even though my pint of “Palmers Copper Ale” was presented to me with one of those fairy liquid bubble heads which has usually disappeared before you’ve got the damn thing to your lips. Even so, it felt like a nice pub to me, they had friendly bar staff and a couple of blues musicians in an adjoining room so I shimmied up the bar to get a better view. From where I was stood it appeared as though the chap sat to my right was blowing down what looked to be an electric razor, mind you, it sounded a lot better than mine, and to my untrained ear resembled a clarinet in sound. They went down well anyway and as I spun round to order a “Taunton traditional cask cider” (it must be the real stuff as it looked like second hand dishwater), the crowd showed their appreciation with warm applause.
As far as the blues is concerned, after a couple of songs, a solo on the harmonica and the odd mention of a dead relative or two, I’ve usually had enough, and so it was again here. It made for a good atmosphere though, I’d found a pub here that I really liked and I felt a warm glow (it was probably the cider) as I strolled across by the telly to watch the U.S Open Golf.
I know I risk sounding like a sports bore here but the truth is that when I’m mooching around on my own it’s handy to have something to watch, it keeps me occupied and a little less conspicuous, which in turn makes you a bit less of a target from the local pub nutter.
I made my exit just before last orders to avoid the crush at the fish shop, - I avoided the crush alright, it was shut. There was an Indian takeaway that looked as if it might have been open, but I’m not a big fan so I headed for home instead. As I gingerly made my up the darkened driveway to “Millwater House” my progress was checked by a very sociable tortoise shell cat that folded its self around my shins as I walked, and from a distance I must have appeared steaming drunk as I tripped and stumbled toward the old wooden porch. My stomach was gurgling expectantly as I crept up the staircase and into the room, but I had nothing to offer it and I put the kettle on. The milk was kept in a miniature fridge in the hallway in which were three bottles of milk each with a room number on written in black marker pen, which was very quaint I thought. I sat back on my bed and listened to a debate on the radio, about a school teacher who whipped off his shirt to flash his “man boobs” in order to get his pupils attention. They don’t throw the board rubber, or smack you on the back of the head with wooden rulers any more then?.
I found a packet of “Deans Shortbread”, cut into “petticoat tails” on my tea tray and I feverishly opened the wrapping like a six year old on Christmas morning, and flew at them, teeth first, showering crumbs to all corners.
I awoke next morning in good time for the 8 o’clock breakfast which was very nice, the few beers I’d had the night before once again tweaking my taste buds to enjoy fried food. I looked out of the window and on to the spacious gardens, I could see that once again the weather was being kind and as I spooned out another home made dollop of orange and pineapple marmalade, I promised myself that this would be the last thing that would pass my lips until I tackled my first nettle in Marshwood.
My constant companion the portable long wave radio is once again pressed into action as it accompanies me to the bathroom as England take on New Zealand, this time at rugby. We were 6-3 up when I went into the shower and 23-6 down when I came out, - talk about a shower of shite!. This doesn’t affect my good mood however and I’m whistling as I dress and I notice through my window the elderly bow-legged next door neighbour filling up his ancient looking watering can from the adjoining stream.
As I cheerily walk up the lane, this time knowing exactly where I’m heading, I can’t stop singing the song “The day we went to Bangor”, this is baffling in the extreme, I haven’t the slightest idea why I’m doing this, I don’t know if I passed a sign for Bangor whilst on the train or there were some sausage related headlines in the paper yesterday or what, but on I go belting it out all the way into the town centre. Once there I take a look round the “River cottage local produce store”, this is owned by one of the hundreds of T.V chefs on the go these days by the name of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. You can’t go very far round these parts without hearing his name being mentioned, indeed when I arrived at the Bed and Breakfast Ruth the owner proudly told me that some of the production team from the programme River Cottage were going to be staying there. If you’ve never heard of him, he’s the one with the wild hair and The Good Life approach. He cooks up some pretty weird recipes grows all his own organic vegetables, and feeds his chickens on stake and chips. He has also made his own “Stinger ale” which is beer made from nettles, I wonder if he’ll be there this afternoon?.
I am drawn to the sound of music so I walk through the church yard and find myself at the “Weavers Gardens” where there is a four piece jazz ensemble playing away in the sunshine to an audience politely watching and clapping sat in rows on fold down chairs.
I took a couple of photos and then a leisurely walk around the tiny museum which was situated next door to this and had a good chat with the very pleasant woman who’d accosted me has I’d walked in.
It was now nearing mid day, and I’d already booked a cab in advance to take me the six miles to Marshwood and so I made my way to the taxi rank.
I was dropped off at the “Bottle Inn” pub at around 12:30, in good time I thought to see the lay of the land and get my name down for the competition. I poked my head round the door to find,………absolutely no one, not a soul, not even behind the bar!. After a short while the young bar maid breezed over. “Am I a bit early for the nettle eating competition then?”, I inquired sheepishly
“Yes, by exactly a week”, was the short and to the point answer that had me falling off my stool.
“What!???, you’re joking, I’ve come a long way for this!”.
“No, it’s next week alright, and funnily enough you’re not the only one to get the date wrong”. I mentioned that that was probably because today’s date was listed in every piece of literature I could find for this event, it had been in the country magazine that I had read at the breakfast table at the guest house that very morning and it was listed for today on the pub’s own website!. But it was next week and that was that. I took a few snaps of the empty pub to prove that I’d been here and forlornly traipsed around the huge beer garden morosely sucking on my pint of “Otter Bitter” (The brewery’s slogan being, “relax with an Otter”).
What a bloody farce, I’d just spent £15 on a taxi to get here and now I had to get back again, there certainly didn’t seem much point in staying here. It was obviously going to be throbbing next week, not only nettle eating but four guest beers and a gorgeous looking girl behind the bar I was promised, but today, nothing. I wasted a few more pounds coins on the telephone in the bar, every time I got through to the taxi rank I could hear them but they couldn’t hear me, but luckily they’d put two and two together and phoned me back. They couldn’t do anything for an hour so I ordered a pint of “Murphys” stout and then an “Isle of Purbeck Fossil Fuel” bitter.
Whilst I was at the bar waiting for my taxi one of the newly arrived customers came up to order some food and called the bar maid over, “Excuse me, could I have “Curry of the day”.
“Yes, of course. – do you want me to tell you what curry it is?”
“No thank you”, and with that he sat down again.
I cheered up a little bit when I recalled that there was a beer festival this afternoon on the outskirts of Axminster so I asked the driver to drop me off there to see if I could salvage this operation.
It was around 1:30pm when I arrived at the “Axminster beer, music and cider festival”. It was a huge marquee that could probably house thousands, It was £6 to get in and an extra pound if you wanted to purchase your own glass, otherwise you were stuck with one of those horrible plastic jobs. I purchased my own glass and was greeted with a scene not unlike the one that I’d just left. It was sparsely populated to say the least but it was early doors I was assured. I tackled a glass (the glasses were approximately half a pint) of “Old Knobbly”, the official description said “brown, malty and complete best bitter”, and caught the arse end of “Angelina with Keith Nelson”. They said that they always finished with the same song that they start with, so they did, and came off to the sound of the grass growing.
This sent my “Old Knobbly” a bit flat and I sat there with what looked like a glass of coffee for the next ten minutes.
It was now time for my first visit to the portaloos, which involved washing your hands with skin sanitiser, a strange substance which resembles spittle and acts like metholated spirits, evaporating into thin air after a couple of lusty rubs. By the third and fourth time I’d taken to sniffing it.
Next up it was Steve somebody or other and Al Richardson, and on closer inspection it was our old blues friends from the “Axminster Inn” the night before, and it wasn’t too long before the old “Phillishave” was out again. They didn’t sound quite as good second time round, but that could have been down to the “No Angel Bitter” – “4% - a bitter with a dry hop finish, well balanced and full of flavour with hints of fruit and hops” (tasted like bonfire toffee). I actually devoured a couple of these in quick succession as Al (or is it Steve) had now started on the jokes which resulted in much scratching of heads and puffing out of cheeks.
After an hour there was still not much sign of it taking off and I sat at a large round table on my own reading the beer list (you’ve probably noticed) and the order of acts. On the table to my right sits a middle aged couple, him with a rucksack on his back and a baseball cap, and her looking quite normal – they don’t speak a word to each other.
On the table in front there sits three men of varying ages that look like they’re from the campaign for real ale group, they take turns to go to the bar, like me, trying as many different concoctions as they can. Each time they expertly lift their glass to their noses and take a slow sip, and then either nod or give a shake of the head. They don’t speak either. I’m in full “people watching” mode now and there’s a bloke two tables away with spiky grey hair, mutton chop whiskers and an Elvis tattoo on his upper arm and looks a bit of a sad loner. He probably thinks the same about me.
The crowd is now slowly growing but they pay little or no attention to the show being put on for their benefit, a fact highlighted when they blindly clapped the C.D put on between acts!. To be fair it was a live C.D and there was applause after one of the tracks and they just sort of joined in.
It’s now 3pm and it’s time for Siophan (pronounced Shivon) Park. She begins. “This next song is called “Too much to ask” (think she’d been at the “Old Knobbly”). This was followed with “A bit less guitar and a little bit more vocals please”. A catchy little title. And then. “No, a little bit less guitar” (probably the follow up single). Apart from her run in with sound technician she was a fair singer, from Ireland I think she was, and I was dying to sing along, but the truth was I’d been in there for two and a half hours and I’d yet to hear a song I’d heard of.
It was time for another drink “Stairway to heaven” – “4.2% - a golden bitter, a perfectly balanced beer. The malty and hoppy leads to a hoppy body with some astringency”.
The three real ale experts in front of me are obviously running short of funds and are down to buying one glass of ale and passing it round, each snootily sniffing and sipping as they went. It was now 3:55pm and Miss Park sang Will you still love me tomorrow- hang on, I know this!. I don’t think anyone else did though, and as I peered down to the front of the marquee I counted three people actually facing the stage. As she finished her set to restrained applause the Willie Nelson type compere shouted “Do you want more!?”, this was quickly followed up with “Don’t look so bloody miserable!”. This comment was actually aimed at the singer!.
My table, which had been solely mine up until now is now infiltrated by a bunch of students adopting Australian accents, I’m not sure if they do this intentionally though, the truth is that most youngsters sound vaguely antipodean to me, it’s that bit whereby the inflexion of the voice goes up at the end, where did that come from?, - Neighbours, Sons and Daughters, Prisoner Cell Block H, old repeats of Skippy?.
At 4pm the tone of the thing changed dramatically when a guy called Andy Strickland got up with an electric guitar and let rip with some Bryan Adams, Pink Floyd and The Police’s Message In A Bottle – weh hey!, it’s what was required and the swelling numbers appreciated it.
It was about now that I decided to take time out for a bit and after a brief visit back at the guest house I revisited the “Axminster Inn” where they were watching local hero Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall on the box in his latest venture of inviting guests round for dinner and feeding them tree bark sandwiches, Bat’s ears and lentils in seawater and lime juice, Pigs cheeks in batter and a hedgehogs bum for desert.
I later returned to the beer festival, complete with my beer glass in my coat pocket at round about half past nine just in time to catch blues duet Steve and Al Richardson – for the third time in less than 24 hours!. I had a glass of “Yellow Hammer”. I’m pretty sure that’s what it was anyway. I usually have a pad and pen in my pocket to remind me of what went on (especially if I’ve been drinking), but reading back my notes after this point is a bit taxing. They resemble the “after” signature of Guy Fawkes that I once saw on a programme that showed you his autograph before and after he was tortured for being a very, very naughty boy.
The place was pretty much packed by now, I had no chance of a seat and I stood there like a lemon constantly lifting my glass to the air and suddenly turning my body at ninety degrees to avoid revelers heading for the portaloos.
I briefly tried to engage in conversation with a tall bloke with a Mohican hair cut that I’d seen previously in the “Axminster Inn”, but when the conversation turned to what I do for a living I inwardly groan. Trying to explain this is always a bit of a trial, especially so when you happen to be stood in the middle of a field in a tent with a background of mandolins, acoustic guitars and people in beards blowing down electric razors whilst being barged from pillar to post by drunken young farmers.
I left shortly before midnight for the pleasant three quarters of an hour long walk back to Millwater House, which took about an hour and a half.

Slightly disheveled, I made my way down the stairs and to breakfast. The two from the production team from River Cottage were there soon after I got to the table, we never got into conversation though, and anyway, I didn’t fancy letting it slip that I’d come all the way here from Spain a week early by mistake. The owners Ruth and Keith gave the game away though, breezing in and announcing “We were at the beer festival last night and somebody said that the nettle eating is next week”.
“Indeed so, but I’ll be back, not next week, next year”. And so it shall be.
They waved me off, very kindly offering to give me a lift to the train station, which I declined.
As I stood on the platform observing a British Railways employee sat waiting for the train wearing a solitary rubber glove – security must be getting pretty keen I thought, I reflected on another enjoyable trip, I didn’t think it would be as good on my own, but I had enjoyed my visit and was glad that I’d have to come back again.
The train rolled up, all six carriages of it, which was approximately one each which seemed a bit extravagant for a Sunday. You trying getting a train during the rush hour through the week from Leeds and you’ll find yourself stood nose to nose with some stranger on one of the packed two carriages clinging on to a pole or a solitary strap, and not being able to breathe out until you reach Sheffield.
The train was in fact so long, that to get off at some of the lesser stations, which I presumed must have included Axminster, you had to disembark from the front two carriages only. After about five minutes the chap I had seen outside with the rubber glove passed me tidying up the table in front, he was a rubbish collector, which was a relief. So I zipped up my trousers and wished him well.
On arrival at Leeds I had a bit of time before my connection to Guiseley where I was to visit my parents, so I took time out to visit my favourite pub in Leeds “The Duncan”. There’s usually a whole batch of characters to be found in here, and just one short stint at the bar you can observe the full range of human emotions from hysterical laughter to crocodile tears of despair. I ordered a pint of “Sammuel Smiths” bitter. “Well, you can have one but I’ve got no pennies”, says the landlady. This puzzled me somewhat, but it became immediately clear, when she asked me for £1.39, I’ll repeat that, £1.39!, it’s about £2 for a pint of bitter in working men’s clubs!.
Sure enough there had been some sort of argument in the far corner and a middle aged woman was slyly sobbing. The landlady, not even looking over in her direction as she pulled a pint of lager says “Oi, don’t be crying in your beer in here, there’s enough water in there already!”. A conversation started about men and women’s roles in the world, the landlady says, “You earn the money and we spend it”, a grizzled pensioner takes a toke of his pint and says “Aye, and you’re doing a grand job of it, if I may say so”. He went on, “You take advantage of us an all, every time I fall asleep the wife’s got her hands down me underpants!”, she shouts back.
“She’s after yer money, yer silly old bugger”